


a mother's son

by iagosmash



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, frigga is a good mother, odin is a pretty sub-par father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iagosmash/pseuds/iagosmash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It is not until they are in bed and the lamps are extinguished that Frigga speaks again.</i><br/><i>“A child who is raised amidst lies will grow up to know only lies,” her voice pierces the darkness. “In centuries’ time, I hope you remember those words.”</i><br/>The truth is, he is neither Odinson nor Laufeyson. He is Frigga’s son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a mother's son

The armies of Asgard arrive home from Jotenheim triumphant. Relieved to be back in the warm safety of home, they carouse and tell tales of the Frost Giants they have slayed.

Odin does not lead the troops home as usual. Frigga observes the celebrations, unworried; if anything had happened the atmosphere would be heavy and sorrowful. As a soldier stands on a table to communicate the size of the Jotun, a messenger announces himself to Frigga with a respectful bow.

“My Queen? The Allfather is in your closet. He wishes to see you immediately.”

As Frigga pulls open the heavy door to her closet her husband turns to her. The sight of his ruined eye, the socket hollow and bloody, shocks her and she rushes to him. Her concern dies on her lips as she realises what he is holding.

“My love, why have you not yet sent for the physician? You must – oh my…Odin, what is that?”

The tiny baby kicking in Odin’s arms is mottled blue and fleshy pick, and even as Frigga stares Odin’s flimsy enchantment fades and the infant’s heritage asserts itself.

“It’s unlike you to bring home refugees,” Frigga says evenly. She will not let anything, not even this foreign child in her closet, shake her calm royal poise.

“Laufey’s son,” Odin explains tersely. “A runt. Abandoned to die in the ruins.”

For the first time Frigga tears her gaze from the infant and looks at her husband.  A spark of understanding flicks between them.

“You mean for us to raise him.”

“That was my reason for bringing it here,” Odin replies. “That in time it could broker a peace between our two people…but now I hesitate. It is not a child of Asgard.”

“So what would you have us do? Throw him out the window? Leave him in a dark room until he expires? No,” Frigga says, and she takes the baby from her husband’s arms. “We will raise him. I will raise him.”

The child is still in her arms as his skin pales to delicate pink. Red Jotun eyes turn a deep green, the same green of Frigga’s own. Her magic is far stronger than that of her husband’s, and she creates an illusion that will last a lifetime.

*

Frigga loves Thor, boisterous, roly-poly, loud Thor, and she has always wanted for him to have a playmate, a brother. More than once Thor has requested one, and Frigga’s answer has always been the same – ‘one day, my darling, one day’.

Frigga sits Thor on her knee, and he looks up at her with blue eyes, Odin’s eyes.

“Thor, I have something exciting and important to tell you,” she says. He continues to gaze up at her, his pink mouth opening slightly. “You have a brother.”

“A bruddah?” repeats the toddler, his eyes widening.

“Yes. His name is Loki, and he’s very small.”

“I can see?”

“Yes, you can meet him.”

Frigga carries Thor to the nursery, where baby Loki is sleeping peacefully in Thor’s old cradle. She places her oldest son down on the floor next to the cradle to examine his new brother. He reaches out pudgy toddler hands and Frigga covers them with her own.

“Not yet, darling, we mustn’t wake him,” she says gently. “You can hold him when he wakes.”

Thor is content to stare down into the cradle, and Frigga hopes with all her heart that the look of love in his eyes will last.

*

When the birth of the new prince is announced to the kingdom the people of Asgard are surprised. The Queen had shown no signs of being with child and there had been no previous announcement of her being so. It is unusually soon after her first child, and salacious rumour streaks through the back alleys of Asgard. But Frigga is beloved by the masses and the shock quickly turns to celebration.

The new prince receives an official presentation, just as his brother did, and as the initial surprise fades Prince Loki becomes a royal fact, paraded through the usual ceremonies. Those in the palace, however, notice differences between the two princes – or rather, in the way Frigga acts with them. She refuses a wet nurse or nanny for Loki, choosing instead to spend almost all her time in the nursery, feeding her child on rich goats’ milk and singing softly to him, lullabies her own mother sang to her. Odin visits regularly, and he holds the boy who is so still and quiet in his arms – unlike Thor, who wriggled and cried and fussed no end no matter who held him. Loki is a passive baby, but both Odin and Frigga notice that there is a tension in his tiny body that only abates when Frigga holds him. Odin doesn’t mind terribly – his real interest in his sons begins when they can hold a sword.

Frigga waits until Odin leaves and she is alone with Loki before entertaining him with flickering illusory lights. Loki reaches out tiny hands to grab them, and they dissolve at his touch, but he never cries.

*

Frigga’s illusion is impenetrable, but although Loki looks like any other Aesir child there are simple facts of his biology that she cannot hide.

He grows rapidly, and although he remains small compared to other children he does everything early. His very first steps are strong and sure, not the bandy-legged wobbling of other toddlers, and fully formed sentences follow quickly. Long before Frigga would have even considered employing a tutor she finds Loki sitting cross-legged on the floor of her closet, his green eyes flickering across the pages of a storybook.

“Can you read that?” she asks him, astounded. He looks up at her, his pale face serious.

“Most of it,” he replies. “I have to miss some bits.”

“I’ll fill in the gaps,” Frigga says, and Loki scrambles onto her lap, book in hand. “It’s better when read aloud anyway, don’t you think?”

Loki nods and she begins to read, noticing for the first time how his eyes slide from side to side instead of staring at the pictures, as Thor still does. Loki is not a warm, squirming weight on her lap as Thor is. He is still, attentive – and cold. Not cold in the way of an object or dead thing, not the blistering cold she knows the Jotun to be. As Frigga strokes Loki’s head, she thinks he feels as if he has just come in from a snowy outdoors; he always feels as if he has just come in to sit by the fire. This chilliness, she knows, is an explicit sign of Loki’s true parentage. But it is a subtle one, one she feels sure she is the only one to notice.

“You don’t feel cold, do you, my darling?” she asks, just to check.

“No, Mama,” Loki replies. “Your hands are very warm though.”

“And yours are very cold!” she laughs.

“Like a frog’s,” says Loki, pointing to a picture in the book.

“Very much like a frog’s,” Frigga says, laughing again. “My little frog.” She squeezes him tightly, and he leans into her.

*

“We have to tell him the truth.”

Loki is about to start lessons, much earlier than usual. As far as anyone can see, he is a happy, well-adjusted child, and to Frigga’s eternal relief there have been no obvious stirrings of Jotun biology to provoke difficult questions. Now, however, she feels Loki must be told the truth, while he is young and innocent enough to accept it.

Odin, unfortunately, disagrees.

“The truth will only hurt and disrupt him,” he replies. They are in their bedchamber, with the servants dismissed for the night. Frigga sits at her dressing table; Odin paces. Loki’s true parentage is a subject they haven’t broached since Frigga’s magic first hid any signs of it, and it is the first time they have realised that they hold fundamentally different views of how to deal with it.

“Nothing is more poisonous than a secret,” says Frigga. “Loki is young, he knows nothing of the Frost Giants or the wars with Laufey. The longer we leave it, the more he will be exposed to the hatred and prejudice and the worse it will be when we do tell him.”

“We’re not going to tell him!”

Frigga looks incredulously at her husband.

“So he is to rule Jotunheim without knowing he’s one of its people? That was the reason you brought him to Asgard, isn’t it? How do you expect to create your lasting peace when Loki believes himself to be Aesir?”

“When Laufey dies and the throne of Jotunheim is empty, I will tell Loki it belongs to him.”

“What, so a crown in a foreign world will make up for centuries of lies?”

Odin scowls.

“Of course not. We will have saved him centuries of feeling different, of seeing himself as an outsider. When the time comes, he can learn of his true race and become their king.”

“King of a people he’s been brought up to hate? A people everyone around him has described as monsters his whole life? Are you so blind as to think that won’t hurt him? He needs to know now, so that he can grow up understanding, knowing that he is loved as part of the family regardless of his heritage.” Frigga says, her green eyes flashing in anger.

“I don’t want him to feel different,” Odin says with a forced evenness.

“What we tell him will not change the facts,” Frigga replies. “Do you really think we can hide the truth from him for that long? This isn’t a small lie. If he finds out on his own, he will blame us, he will hate us for lying. We must be honest with him. If we lie to our own child we will be planting seeds of poison. There should be no secrets in a family.”

“If we tell him now you will destroy our family. We will become three members of a family and one outcast,” Odin says. “I want Asgard to be his home”

Frigga stands suddenly, and for a moment it seems as if she will lose her temper. But she is quiet until she has composed herself, and her next words are soft. Reason has failed; she turns to pathos.

“Then is my love not enough to make a home?” she says. “Is all the care and support and adoration of my heart that I can give to _my son_ not enough to compensate for a simple fact of biology?”

Odin stares at his wife for a long time, and she doesn’t waver. She wouldn’t be Frigga if she did.

“I have made my decision,” he says finally. “And you will abide by it.”

It is not until they are in bed and the lamps are extinguished that Frigga speaks again.

“A child who is raised amidst lies will grow up to know only lies,” her voice pierces the darkness. “In centuries’ time, I hope you remember those words.”

Odin doesn’t reply. In the morning, Loki is as happy and mischievous as ever, and the subject of his parentage is not mentioned again for many years.

*

By the time Loki starts lessons, he has a firm grounding in the myths and history of Asgard thanks to tales told to him and Thor by their parents. Both Odin and Frigga spend hours with the boys, weaving stories from millenniums past about the great Aesir heroes, both real and legendary.

Frigga invites both young boys to clamber onto her lap in her closet. She wraps a strong arm around each of her sons, Loki nuzzled into the soft fabric of her dress and Thor staring adoringly up at her. She tells them old tales that her mother told her, stories of the first Aesir set in the sapling boughs of Yggdrasil. Her stories are occasionally illustrated with shimmering images conjured from her own hands, mirages that flicker above her palms giving her delighted sons a glimpse of the characters whose exploits she so skilfully recounts.

Sometimes she leads them into an inner chamber of the grand palace library, where an image of the World Tree spins slowly in the centre of the room. She pulls a book from the shelf and reads them the story of how their grandfather defeated the Dark Elves before the world was bathed in light. The pictures move slowly across the page, beautifully detailed illustrations expertly rendered, but both Thor and Loki prefer when the tales come from their mother’s memory, slightly different with each retelling.

When Odin tells the boys stories he seats them cross-legged on cushions in front of him as he describes the great victories of Asgard, many from his own eyewitness accounts. While Frigga’s stories are most often told before bed, leaving Thor and Loki feeling sleepy and safe, their father’s stories incite hours of vigorous play, mock battles and wars acted out using sticks and handfuls of mud. Just as Frigga occasionally takes them to the library, Odin sometimes gives the boys the immense privilege of entering the weapons vault. He stands them in front of one of the dangerous relics and explains how it came to be in Aesir hands, and after listening with silent and attentive reverence Thor and Loki will run off to find a suitable prop and spend the say acting out its capture. On one occasion Loki sneaks into the kitchens to steal a meat tenderising mallet to play Mjölnir, and when Cook realises the younger prince is threatened with the mother of all beatings by the least friendly of the palace staff.

When Odin shows them the Cask of Ancient Winters the boys spend hours painting a small old crate in swirls of black and blue and silver. As usual, Thor casts himself as the heroic Aesir – in this case their father – and Loki is stuck being Laufey, tyrannous and cruel king of the vicious and bloodthirsty Frost Giants. Once he gets over being made to play the enemy of Asgard for the hundredth time, Loki plays an army of Frost Giants with villainous aplomb, complete with a gouging out of Thor’s eye using a hardboiled egg and copious amounts of pomegranate juice. When Frigga realises what the boys are playing she immediately puts a stop to it, distracting them with a legend from Jotenheim of a winter warrior. Although her tale of a heroic Jotun is well received, Odin’s description of the Frost Giants has already taken hold and her heart breaks to see Loki, face and hands smeared with blue paint, hissing and bellowing while Thor proudly proclaims that he is of Asgard and will prevail over the icy peril.

“How could you!” she says furiously to Odin as the shouts and laughs of their sons echo up from the courtyard beneath the window they are standing at. “Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

“They are just boys,” Odin replies. “They are playing at being warriors; it is nothing.”

Frigga can barely comprehend her husband’s near-sightedness and she turns and leaves in disgust.

*

That year brings an unusually cold winter to Asgard, and Loki and Thor see their first truly heavy snowfall. Almost overnight the world outside the palace turns white, and when the snow reaches several feet deep the boys are forbidden from going outside on their own. They spend the afternoon begging Frigga to take them to play in the snow. Finally she relents, and she wraps her sons in rich furs they have never before had cause to wear. She hesitates slightly before dressing Loki against the cold in the same way as Thor, conscious that it probably isn’t necessary. Her cold little son is more vigorous and mischievous than ever, his energy for once rivalling Thor’s. In the height of summer Loki is always lethargic and indolent, complaining of the heat; unlike the rest of Asgard he thrives in winter. In this unusually cold year, he is being constantly chased about the castle by servants and his parents, causing more mayhem than ever and never keeping his warm cloak on.

Thor and Loki spend almost an hour simply being entranced by the snow, running back and forth and turning to examine their footprints. More than once Thor attempts to eat the snow and has to be stopped by Frigga; Loki is obsessed with the texture and temperature of it, removing his gloves in order to feel the snow against the skin of his hands.

“Loki, darling, don’t do that, keep your gloves on to protect yourself from the cold –”

Frigga stares down at her youngest son’s hands. The very tips of his little fingers have turned a faint blue. Frigga quickly wraps her hands over Loki’s and rubs them, a gesture any mother would do to warm a child’s hands. Frigga, however, is rapidly renewing and strengthening her enchantment on Loki’s skin, praying that this is a one-off slip.

“But I’m not cold, Mama,” Loki protests.

“Well, sometimes you don’t realise how cold you are until it’s too late,” Frigga says, employing mild scare tactics as she continues to rub his hands. “Now, where are your gloves?”

Loki pulls them from a pocket and Frigga forces his small hands into them.

“Now you keep them on, or you’ll be staying inside for the rest of winter, understand?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Good boy.” Frigga kisses her son, her lips hot on the cold skin of his cheek, and he rushes off to join Thor.

Eventually the snow and the cold inspire the boys into a game of ‘Father fights the Frost Giants’, and Frigga steps in, encouraging them to build a snowman instead. With no previous experience, the best they can manage is a skinny tower of snow only two feet high, and they both become frustrated. Thor attempts to add another pile of snow as a more defined head while Loki tells him not to or he’ll ruin it. Sure enough, when Thor ungently drops an armful of snow on their attempted snowman the whole thing collapses and Loki yells in frustration.

“Thor, you oaf! I told you that would ruin it!”

“I couldn’t concentrate because you were talking!”

“It’s not my fault, it’s your fault!”

“Is not!”

“It is!”

“Boys,” Frigga warns. “Don’t fuss. Never mind about the snowman, it was a good first try. Why don’t you do something else now?”

A grin spreads across Thor’s face and he reaches down to grab a handful of snow.

“Snowball fight!” he yells, hurling it at Loki. The snow hits the younger brother in the chest and he stands there, the anger on his face turning to surprise. Frigga thinks for a moment that he might be about to cry, but instead a wide smile appears on his face.

The boys trade snowballs for ten minutes, yelling and laughing and chasing each other. Frigga warns them not to aim at each other’s faces, but other than that she sits back and looks on with a motherly smile.

“Ow! Thor, that hit my neck, it’s gone down my tunic!”

“Do you yield?” Thor laughs, another snowball at the ready.

“No! But don’t throw them at my neck!” Loki looks seriously at his brother.

“Mama only said not to throw it at your face,” Thor taunts. “I can hit your neck if I want to.”

He throws his snowball, accidently hitting Loki’s chin.

“THOR! That HURT! Mama said not to throw it at faces!”

There are tears in Loki’s eyes; Frigga is rushing over and Thor begins to apologise when –

“ARGH!”

The sound of ice smashing precedes Thor’s scream; there is ice on his face and a scarlet spot of blood blossoming on his forehead. Frigga rushes to him as blood begins to trickle into the fair hair of his eyebrow and tears fall freely down his face. Frigga examines him; there is a shard of ice piercing his brow as well as chunks of broken ice at his feet. Frigga whirls on Loki.

“What did you do?” she says, trying her best to refrain from sounding accusatory.

“I – I don’t know – I didn’t mean to –” Loki stutters. He is still holding out the hand he used to throw the ice-covered snowball. He isn’t wearing his gloves and there is a thin layer of ice on his palm.

“Go inside,” Frigga says sternly. “Go up to your room and stay there.”

“Mama, I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“Loki, now.”

Loki turns and runs back into the palace and Frigga bundles Thor up into her arms to carry him inside, something he will soon be too big for. There are still tears running down his red cheeks and Frigga presses a kiss to the top of his blond head.

She carries him up to her closet, where she cleans his face and does her best to heal the small cut using magic. Once Thor has stopped crying and the bleeding has subsided she holds him in her lap, singing softly to comfort him.

“You’re okay, my darling,” she says finally. “It’s only a very small cut and I’ve made it even smaller. Why don’t you go down to the kitchens and ask Cook for a hot chocolate?”

Thor nods and wipes his eyes, delicately avoiding the cut on his brow, and Frigga removes his wet outer garments before he toddles down to the kitchens.

Frigga sits in her chamber alone for a number of minutes before going up to talk to Loki.

She finds him in his bedroom, lying face-down on his bed with his snow-covered clothes creating puddles on the floor.

“Loki,” Frigga says as she closes the door behind her. “Can you tell me what happened, please?”

Loki looks up as she sits on the bed beside him. His pillow is wet with tears.

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just threw a snowball – I don’t know why it was so hard and icy. The others weren’t.”

Frigga looks down at her son for a minute before speaking again.

“You were angry at Thor, yes?”

Loki doesn’t reply.

“It’s okay, little frog,” she says, running a comforting hand through Loki’s dark hair. “You’re not in trouble, I just want to know what happened.”

“Yes, I was mad at Thor,” Loki says quietly. “But I didn’t want to hurt him!”

“I know, I know.”

“Is Thor okay?” Loki asks with real fear in his eyes, and Frigga is struck, as she occasionally is, by how much her sons care for each other.

“Yes, he’s fine. A small cut; he’ll have forgotten it tomorrow.”

Loki is visibly relieved.

“I really don’t know what happened,” he says. “I had a snowball in my hand, and when I threw it at Thor it…wasn’t a snowball.”

“It’s all okay, Loki,” Frigga says, still stroking his hair. “No real harm done. But you must remember to control your temper, little frog. Getting angry doesn’t solve anything, and as you’ve seen this afternoon it often only serves to make everything worse.”

“Yes, Mama. I won’t get angry anymore, ever.”

“It’s okay to be angry. Just don’t let it overcome you.”

Loki sits up and hugs his mother tightly, burying his face in the soft fabric of her dress as he’s done so many times before.

“I love you, Mama,” he says in a muffled voice.

“I love you too, my darling.”

Frigga briefly considers not telling Odin about this manifestation of Jotun power, but the idea of adding another secret to the family’s collection is abhorrent to her. So she tells him, and he reacts as she’s expected – ignore it, he says; make sure it doesn’t happen again, be more careful and watch Loki closely.

“This is our final chance to tell him the truth,” she argues. “The perfect opportunity. Either we tell him everything now, or we spend the next millennia lying and avoiding and covering up. Either we allow Loki to understand who he is, or we bear the consequences when we cannot hide it from him any longer.”

“We are not going to tell him,” Odin says, and his tone leaves no room for argument or further discussion.

“Very well,” Frigga says. “On your own head be it.”

*

The patterns of daily life carry the boys forward from day to day, year to year. They spend mornings with tutors, learning history, geography, how the world around them works. The tutors report regularly to Odin and Frigga – Thor is clever, but lazy; eagerly soaking up tales of battles but slow to analyse their tactics and actively resistant to recitations. Loki, on the other hand, has a quick mind burning with curiosity. He questions everything, always wanting to know more – much to the annoyance of Thor, who endures the lessons but cannot imagine why Loki actively prolongs them. Their tutors report that while Thor will never make a scholar, Loki could become one of Asgard’s great thinkers. When Odin hears this he scoffs, making it clear that neither of the princes are meant for academia, that he expects them both to grow into warrior kings. The tutors amend their reports, saying instead that Loki will be a great tactician and diplomat.

The boys spend their afternoons outside, training their bodies after long mornings indoors training their minds. Although neither of them are yet given weapons, their exercise and games begin to incorporate training in unarmed combat. Loki is spry and quick, but his nimbleness is never quite a match for Thor’s brute strength and wrestles between them always end with Loki pinned to the ground while Thor laughs, waiting for his younger brother to admit defeat before releasing him.

Odin begins to take more and more interest in these training sessions, watching his sons tussle with each other and their fellow warriors-in-training. He begins to insert himself into their training, offering criticism and suggestions as well as the occasional demonstration. As the physical gap between Loki and all the others grows he seems to become less and less interested in his training, something Odin notices. His criticisms of Loki become more frequent, and before long Loki is refusing to take part in the light-hearted game that ends the afternoon, retreating instead into the palace alone.

“He isn’t trying,” Odin says to Frigga one evening.

“Why do you say that?” she replies. She barely looks up from her needlework, but a crease appears between her eyes.

“He isn’t improving, and he doesn’t strive to. He seems to have no interest at all in training.”

Frigga can sense Odin pacing.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Odin continues after a pause. “Thor vastly outmatches him; they should be more equal.”

Another pause. Frigga continues to sew, her movements controlled and precise. She knows what her husband is going to say next.

“It’s what he is,” Odin says eventually. He speaks more softly, but there is steel in his voice.

Frigga looks up at him for the first time.

“The Jotun are a race of warriors, just like the Aesir,” she says evenly.

“But in comparison to Thor –”

“All children are not created equally,” Frigga interrupts, and there is a coldness in her voice. They have been building up to this conversation for years now, ever since they first disagreed over whether to tell Loki of his true heritage. In some ways she’s been waiting for it ever since Odin first handed her her second son, blue and cold in her arms. Before Odin can speak, she continues. “What do his tutors say?”

“I don’t see what –”

“What do they say?”

Odin stares at her for a moment before replying.

“That he has a curious mind and a quick wit.”

“They call him brilliant,” Frigga says. “Loki is not deficient; he is not a failed Aesir. He has his own strengths and weaknesses, just as Thor does, just as you do.”

“The boy is –”

In that instant Frigga’s temper snaps.

“You seek to blame his heritage for the simple fact that his strength lies in his mind rather than his body!” she says harshly. “If it was reversed, if Thor was the scholarly one –”

“But he’s not!” Odin cuts in, and he’s yelling now. “Thor is what a prince of Asgard ought to be, and Loki is different, he’s _other_ –”

Frigga slaps him, hard across the face.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, with wire in her voice, tense and cold. “Don’t you dare suggest that Loki is not of Asgard, don’t you dare suggest that he’s not of this family. He is my son –”

“He’s Laufey’s son –”

“He’s _my_ son! I raised him, I cared for him, I nurtured him, and that is what matters! He is no more of Jotunheim than I am!”

Odin turns and leaves the room. This is the first time they’ve fought in many years. The last time was over Loki too.

The next day, late in the afternoon when Thor is still training outside, Frigga goes down to the library. She finds Loki nestled amongst the shelves, an obscure book spread out on his lap. He is sullen and silent, but she is persistent, and before long he is discussing the contents of the book with her, his green eyes sparkling.

From then on, when Loki leaves training early he makes his way to his mother’s chambers, something that goes unnoticed by Thor, but not by Odin.

*

Thor and Loki grow, and soon they are not children but young men. The time comes for them to choose weapons with which to train. Everyone knows that Thor will one day wield Mjölnir, Asgard’s mightiest weapon. But first he must earn it, and he therefore chooses a short-handled axe to train with in the meantime.

Loki’s choice is harder. None of the offered weapons seem to appeal to him; he has no stand-out strength and he therefore doesn’t know how to specialise his fighting ability. He secretly believes that his best bet would be to talk his way out of having to fight in the first place.

Eventually, mostly on Thor’s advice, he selects a long staff with a blade at one end. It’s a weapon that requires a level of agility he possesses, but there’s another reason he chooses it. Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, despite the fact that Thor looks and acts the part and is obviously favoured, there is still a part of Loki that believes he will one day be king. The staff is as close as he can get to Gungnir, the king’s sceptre that he still secretly hopes to one day wield.

However, Loki feels almost immediately that he has made the wrong selection. While Thor seems almost instantly to swing his axe like and extension of his arms, the staff feels unnatural and unwieldy in Loki’s hands. A trainer corrects his grip and stance, another teaches him the basic moves and positions, even his father spends a whole afternoon with him, attempting to pass on his years of experience wielding a similar weapon.

“It takes times to tune your body to the weapon,” Odin tells Loki repeatedly. But every time Loki swings the staff’s blade his grip or stance or technique fails and the blows he lands on the wooden training dummy are weak. When facing a living, ducking opponent he rarely manages to land a hit at all.

Eventually, after over a month of sweating through hours of training with little progress to show for it, Loki loses patience. He has spent day after day attempting to improve to no avail, and one afternoon after one embarrassing spar too many, he throws his staff to the ground. Odin comes over to him, and Loki is sure he is going to be given yet more criticism.

His father’s single blue eye moves from Loki to the staff on the ground and back again.

“Perhaps another weapon,” he says eventually. “Try a sword.”

Loki does. He tries one sword, then another. He tries every different kind of sword the armoury has. Then a mace, then a spear, then an axe like Thor’s; he tries every kind of weapon his trainers and his father can put in his hands, but a year later, as Thor becomes undefeatable, Loki has not found a weapon that suits him, has utterly failed to tune his body to any blade or cudgel. One time Odin suggests a bow, a suggestion met with disbelief and hurt. Archery is a discipline of peasants and the cowardly, the weak and feminine, and despite mounting evidence to the contrary Loki knows he is better than that.

One cold afternoon, after hours of training, Loki drops a heavy double-edged battleaxe to the ground in anger and disgust.

“I give up,” he says, and to his horror he realises that there is a lump in his throat, a year’s worth of failed effort and frustration pressing against his windpipe. “There’s nothing I can use, no weapon I can wield; I’m a useless fighter and a failed warrior.”

He turns and walks away, heading back towards the palace. The trainers look to Odin. Thor makes a move to follow Loki, but Odin holds up a hand to stop him.

“Loki makes his own choices,” he says.

Frigga sees the whole thing from a window high in the palace. She has kept a watchful eye over her sons as they’ve trained, has watched Thor’s ability flourish while Loki’s failed to bloom. She sees her youngest son’s potential, sees how neat his footwork is, how sharp his reflexes are, how fluidly he can move when in the right position. She knows that Loki’s heart and mind burn with the same determination and bravery of any warrior, and to see him throw down weapon after weapon, to see him so thoroughly lose faith in his own ability, breaks her heart. She takes an item from a drawer, and heads for the library.

Frigga finds Loki where she expects him, amongst the most obscure shelves with a heavy book in his lap – the same way she had found him so many times before.

“Did you ever try a bow?” she asks. Loki looks up at her with disdain. “It’s a weapon that requires great skill and discipline,” she continues. “It calls for a steady hand and a good mind. It may suit you.”

“It also calls for one to be far removed from the battle,” Loki replies. “Hardly the weapon of a warrior. I’d rather not fight than prance around the edges of a war, pinging twenty pathetic arrows into the melee like a frightened peasant.”

Everyone always remarks on the difference between her sons, but, Frigga thinks, they are more similar than most people realise, themselves included.

“So you’ve given up?” she asks lightly.

Loki looks down at the book in his lap, ashamed.

“I want you to try this,” Frigga says when Loki doesn’t reply. She holds a scabbard out to him. Its leather is worn and faded, but the gold of its buckles shines dimly in the lamplight.

“I’ve tried dozens of swords,” he says flatly, barely looking up.

“Loki,” Frigga says, and her son looks up at her. “It isn’t a sword.”

Loki takes the scabbard from her hands and slides the blade out slowly. It’s a long knife, with both edges sharpened. It’s long enough to be mistaken for a short sword at a glance, but it’s far lighter and narrower than any blade Loki had trained with. He looks up at his mother again, silently questioning.

“This was my first blade,” she says. “I never had the brute strength to wield a heavy sword, but a knife sat comfortably in my hand.” Loki makes to speak, but Frigga stops him. “I know people see knives as the weapons of traitors and liars, but I have always fought with one, and I am both your mother and the Queen. That ought to satisfy you.”

Loki examines the long knife, and even as he sits with it held loosely in his hand it feels more natural than any weapon he held on the training grounds ever did.

“None of the trainers will teach me how to fight with a knife,” he says, and Frigga hears the disappointment in his voice.

“I know.”

“Then what is the point of having it?”

Frigga raises a regal eyebrow.

“I am going to train you.”

*

Loki abandons the afternoon training sessions. The other young warriors barely question it, but Thor is concerned, and as Loki repeatedly fails to turn up the older boy pesters Odin, worried that something is wrong.

“Loki is pursuing his own path,” is all Odin will say. When Thor realises that his brother is spending the afternoons with their mother there is a vague flash of jealousy, but Odin is becoming ever more involved in his own training, and besides, he has always preferred his father’s company.

For his part, Odin had been hesitant at first to agree to Frigga training Loki. The best trainers in Asgard had worked with their younger son; he himself had attempted to teach Loki and develop his all-important fighting skills. When he had pointed this out to his wife, she merely raised an eyebrow.

“You tried to teach him to be one sort of warrior,” she’d said. “I will teach him to be a different sort.”

There was no harm in her trying, Odin had concluded. Loki may not have been his flesh and blood, but he’d raised him as a son and he expected him to have all the attributes of an Asgardian prince, including the ability to fight, to do battle and win. Perhaps it was fitting, Odin thought, that his unconventional son should be trained in an unconventional way. Besides, Loki seemed more in tune with Frigga; he always had.

Odin nods in satisfaction as Thor wins a bout quickly and easily. His oldest son has grown rapidly and is now both tall and muscled, physically more man than boy. His beard remains patchy, and it will be many centuries before he is ready to take Asgard’s throne, but it was evident, even more so now than in the past, that Thor was rapidly becoming the epitome of Aesir masculinity.

Odin leaves the training grounds, making his way to Frigga’s private gardens. He slips through the enchantment that keeps the area separate from the rest of the palace grounds to see his wife and youngest son sparring in the mid-afternoon sun.

Frigga is fighting with a wooden training sword of standard size and wears the leather arm guards typical of trainers. Her long blonde plait swings around her as she spins and Odin realises, not for the first time, that she is most beautiful when she fights.

Loki, as tall as Thor but still slim like a child, holds a short wooden dagger, carved specially for him to train with. Odin watches as he twists and ducks around Frigga’s sword easily, his footwork light and quick and his movements precise, never moving an inch further than necessary. As Frigga raises her sword, Loki slips gracefully under her arm, moving in close behind her and bringing his wooden dagger to the side of her neck before her sword is fully raised. It’s a sneaky trick, but an effective one.

Frigga grins. “Excellent, Loki,” she says. “You see, the shorter your blade, the closer you can get to your opponent–”

“–Preventing him from having room or time to use the full force of his brute strength against me,” Loki finishes. “Yes, it makes sense now.”

“You’ve got to stay quick though,” Frigga says as they part and grasp wrists, as is customary at the end of a bout. “Being closer means your opponent can more easily land a blow with his free arm or his leg; you must always be aware of what his entire body is doing and how to avoid it.”

“Watch the left,” Odin says, a mantra he is still drilling into Thor. Both Loki and Frigga turn, noticing his presence for the first time.

“Hello, darling,” says Frigga. There are two spots of colour high on her cheeks but she is barely out of breath. Loki is as pale as ever. He smooths his dark hair back into place.

“Good form,” Odin says to Loki. “Excellent footwork. Your style is developing strongly.”

Loki beams, obviously immensely pleased at the praise from his father. Odin turns to Frigga.

“It’s earlier than I’d planned, but Thor is ready to wield Mjölnir,” he says. “I don’t doubt he’s the best fighter of his age; he’s ready for that honour.”

“If you think he’s ready,” Frigga says lightly. “I’m so pleased for him.”

Odin turns and leaves, not seeing the crestfallen expression on his younger son’s face.

*

 

The presentation of Asgard’s mightiest weapon to Thor is a ceremonial occasion. A helmet is commissioned for him especially for the event. Loki pokes fun at the golden wings, calling his brother the bird prince. Frigga perceives the jealousy the insult is born from, and she asks Odin to reconsider his decision not to commission a ceremonial helmet for Loki.

“He hasn’t yet earned that honour,” the Allfather says.

“Loki has become a formidable fighter –” Frigga begins, but her husband cuts her off.

“He has been training in private and is yet to prove himself in bouts with the others,” he says. “When he publicly proves his worth, rather than privately sparring only with his mother, I will reconsider.”

And so as Thor is presented with Mjölnir, Loki stands to one side of the throne, with no helmet on his head.

After the ceremony Thor leads the way to the banquet hall. Frigga notices Loki slip quietly away in the direction of his bedroom. She makes her excuses and follows him.

When she knocks on Loki’s door she waits until he responds before pushing open the heavy golden doors. Loki is curled on his bed, a book open in his arms. His ceremonial clothes are discarded on the floor, and Frigga notes this as a rarity for her normally fastidious younger son.

“I understand that you’re finding this hard,” she says softly, sitting on the edge of Loki’s bed. He doesn’t look up at her, staring instead at the book, although his green eyes aren’t moving. When he doesn’t respond she continues.

“Neither your father nor I favour Thor over you, Loki. Thor is older than you; it’s only natural that he should reach some milestones before you.”

“I’ll never reach them,” Loki mumbles, and Frigga can tell that the words are not coming easily, that Loki is resenting sounding like a petulant child but cannot stop himself from voicing his long-held fears.

“Yes, you will,” Frigga says firmly. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t. You know as well as I do that you’ve become an excellent fighter.”

Loki looks up at her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It doesn’t matter what I do or how good I am at it, Thor will always be better.”

“You know that isn’t true. You do better in lessons than Thor.”

“Only because he doesn’t try,” Loki retorts. “Besides, no-one cares about lessons. All that matters is that you do something impressive in the sparring ring. Like swinging Mjölnir about, winning every bout without breaking a sweat,” he adds darkly.

Frigga looks at Loki as he returns his gaze to his book. She stands up suddenly and Loki looks up at her.

“Come with me, little frog,” she says.

“Why?” The corner of his mouth quirks up at the childhood term of affection, but the rest of his expression is burning with curiosity.

“I want to show you something.”

She leads the way to her closet, where Loki hovers in the doorway as she pulls a large, extremely old book from a locked drawer. She motions him over and hands it to him. The leather is worn and cracked, but warm, as if nestled amongst the old yellow pages a small flame is burning. He sits on one of the low chairs and rests the book on his lap, lifting the heavy cover delicately. Every page is covered in dense, blocky runes, the kind Loki has only ever come across in books far older than his grandfather. They take effort and concentration to decipher, but when he combines the words he can make out with the finely detailed illustrations Loki can see that this is like no book contained in the palace’s extensive library.

“What exactly am I looking at?” he asks, looking up at his mother.

“Magic,” she replies simply.

Loki nods. He’d thought so, but magic of this kind is so uncommon, so rarely practised in Asgard, that he’d been unable to tell for certain. The only time he’d ever seen magic of this kind was sitting on his mother’s lap as she conjured shimmering images to accompany her bedtime stories.

“If you want to learn, I will teach you,” Frigga says simply, after a pause.

“You’ll teach me magic,” Loki mumbles, turning the dry pages of the book reverently.

“Magic is an immensely difficult thing to learn,” she warns. “It takes discipline, strength of mind. Years of diligent practise. But if one masters it, one masters one of the oldest and most powerful forces in the universe.”

Loki looks up at his mother.

“And you believe I could master it?”

“I have no doubt.”

 It’s not a subtle gesture. Neither of them say it, but both know that Frigga wants to give Loki something that is his, something which neither Thor nor anyone else can or will compete with. With magic, as with nothing else, Loki will be able to cast his own shadow rather than standing in Thor’s.

Loki grins, green eyes glinting.

“When do we start?”

*

So she teaches him. They still spar together, she still builds up his fighting ability, but most of their afternoon sessions become devoted to the study of magic. Frigga gives Loki spellbooks to study, starting with the first one she showed him. He learns to read the ancient runes easily, and as he absorbs the content of his mother’s books he slowly becomes aware of the energy that tingles in the air around him, hovering tantalisingly just above his fingertips. Frigga begins to train him to harness it, instructing him in how to invite it into his body, seeping through his pale skin.

“Concentrate,” she tells him. They are sitting in her closet; it’s his first practical lesson. “Think about everything you’ve read. Feel the energy, acknowledge it, and then control it. Let knowledge and instinct combine.”

Loki is staring at his outstretched hand, a deep furrow of concentration etched between his thin dark brows, willing something to shimmer into existence above his palm. He _knows_ the theory, he’s memorised the books, he’s seen his mother do this a hundred times; _why is nothing happening?_

“Don’t overthink, darling; concentrate but don’t shut out impulse. Magic comes from the perfect union of the head and the soul. Take a deep breath.”

Loki does so, and as he exhales slowly he feels a tingle in his fingertips. He continues to breathe deeply, trying not to analyse the feeling away. The tingling turns cold and spreads from his fingertips through the rest of his hand, and even though that’s not what the books or his mother described he allows the feeling to spread and grow more intense because _something is happening!_

Finally, when his hand has become so cold he feels that he won’t be able to bear it much longer, a thin layer of ice forms on his palm. With a soft cracking sound it grows, and within seconds a small, perfectly formed pyramid of ice is sitting in his hand.

“Enough,” Frigga says suddenly, startling Loki so much that he drops his tiny magic ice sculpture. Frigga catches it with warrior’s reflexes and drops it into the flames crackling in the fireplace, where it promptly disappears.

“Was…was that not right?” Loki says. “I mean, I know it wasn’t lights but –”

“It ought to have been lights,” Frigga says, and her expression is unreadable.

“I don’t quite know what happened,” admits Loki, “but it was something!”

Frigga is silent for a moment. Then her expression softens and when she speaks any trace of harshness is gone.

“Sometimes,” she says slowly, “magic is…mischannelled. It’s uncommon, and basic spellbooks don’t mention it…but I believe that may have been what happened. What did you feel?”

“Cold. Tingling at first, like I expected, but then it went cold.”

Frigga nods as if Loki’s answer has confirmed something.

“If that feeling ever returns whilst you are attempting magic, do not let it develop,” she says. “Magic channelled incorrectly can be…dangerous. Focus on what you know you ought to be feeling – tingling, and a warmth.”

Loki sits in silence for a number of minutes, looking down at his hands.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he says eventually. “I didn’t mean to do it wrong. Maybe I’m not meant for sorcery after all.”

“No, Loki, don’t be silly. I’m sure you are. Just be…mindful, and I’m sure you’ll find your ability to use magic as it ought to be used.” Frigga says. “Perhaps that’s enough for today. Look over your books again tonight, and we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Once Loki has left Frigga stares silently into the fire, where the manifestation of Loki’s true heritage has long since melted away. She’s heard many tales of the Frost Giants’ ability to conjure ice from nowhere, especially to form unique weapons. The possibility that attempting to teach Loki magic would awaken this skill had never occurred to her. As she gazes into the flames she remembers a hard icy snowball and Thor’s bleeding forehead, and she seriously considers abandoning Loki’s magic lessons. But the thought of telling her younger son that he must give up something unique to him, something he is so enthusiastic about and has such potential for and need of, all because of a risk of biology that he can’t possibly guess at, is unbearable. No, Loki’s magic must not be taken from him, she decides. She just has to make sure that he develops the skills he ought to have and shuns the ones that he mustn’t ever know about.

She doesn’t tell Odin about Loki’s first attempt at magic. There should be no secrets in a family, but Odin has made it abundantly clear over the years that where Loki is concerned this is not the case.

Loki returns the next day, and instead of ice he conjures the briefest flicker of golden light. Both he and Frigga are overjoyed, for subtly different reasons, and as the days go by the shimmering lights Loki creates grow stronger and longer-lasting, with no hint of ice. Within a month he has twisting, sparking lights just like his mother’s dancing above his hands, shimmering gold and green.

*

“Brother, look!” Loki says to Thor, one rainy evening. Thor is caked in mud, his blonde hair hanging in wet strings over his face after long hours training in the cold and wet. Loki has spent the afternoon by the fire in their mother’s closet, learning to bend the twisting lights he can now easily conjure into a recognisable form.

Thor moves to brush Loki aside on his way to his washroom, but the small bird rustling its wings in Loki’s palm stops him. The bird flickers gold at the edge of its feathers, the illusion not yet perfect, but when Loki flexes his slim fingers and the bird takes flight Thor’s eyes light up in amazement. The bird dissolves quickly into golden mist once it gets too far from Loki’s hand, but after only a year of learning magic it is an impressive feat; Frigga told Loki so.

“Loki, how…how did you…” Thor is still staring at the spot in the air where the bird dissolved.

“Mother is teaching me magic,” Loki says, his smile wide. “I wanted to wait until I was good enough before I showed you.”

Thor looks at Loki, and there is an odd expression on his face, an emotion clouding his blue eyes which Loki has never seen there before. He recognises it from his mirror as jealousy. In the next instant it is gone, replaced by pride and simple joy, and Thor claps a hand to Loki’s shoulder.

“Impressive, brother!” he booms. “You’ll make a fine sorcerer!”

The warmth of Thor’s praise glows in Loki’s chest all throughout dinner, but a dark thought gnaws at its edges. Late that night he knocks softly on his mother’s closet door, hoping she hasn’t already retired to the bedroom. To his relief she calls softly for him to come in. She is seated by the fire, a small book in her hand.

“Hello, little frog,” she says warmly. “Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”

“I showed Thor my bird,” Loki replies. “He was very impressed.”

“I’m sure he was. You’ll have to show your father, he’ll be proud.” She smiles up at him.

“I’ll show Father once it’s perfect; it still flickers around the edges.”

“We’ll work on it tomorrow,” Frigga says. “It’s a bit late now.”

Loki hesitates before he speaks again.

“Could you… I mean, could Thor…if he wanted to… Could Thor learn magic?”

The lines of concern on his mother’s face soften into an expression of understanding.

“Your brother would never want to learn magic,” she says. “It’s not in his nature, just as swinging an axe isn’t in yours.”

“I know, but…if the mood struck him, and he wanted to try it, would he be successful, or would it elude him?”

Frigga can see where this concern is coming from as clearly as if it were written in the lines on Loki’s pale brow. Her younger son has finally found something he excels at, and the thought that his brother could usurp it is eating away at Loki like a poisonous fungus.

“I know you feel as if Thor is magnificent at anything he cares to try, but he has his weaknesses and inabilities just as you do. Just as we all do,” Frigga says softly.

“So he couldn’t do magic? Ever?” Loki demands.

“I don’t believe so,” his mother replies. When Loki’s green eyes flash triumphantly, he quickly adds, “But that doesn’t change the fact that you and he are equals. Neither of you is any better than the other. You are both my sons, and I love you both equally.”

Loki nods and embraces her warmly. He is taller than she is now.

After Loki leaves Frigga calls to her lady’s maid to prepare her for bed and then retires to the bedroom. Odin is in bed already, reading over reports from the Vanaheim ambassadors.

“What did Loki want at this hour?” he says, looking up.

“Reassurance,” replies Frigga lightly. There is a pause before she continues. “He’ll want to show you his little magic bird soon. He’s waiting until it’s perfect, but it won’t be long.”

“I see.”

“You must promise me that you’ll treat it the same way you did when Thor first conjured Mjölnir’s lighting,” Frigga says. “This is very important to Loki, and he needs to know that you support him and that you’re proud.”

“I’m always supportive and proud of my boys,” says Odin.

“Yes, but you make it known to Thor more often than to Loki.”

They both know that this is true, and Odin doesn’t deny it.

“You must promise me,” Frigga prompts gently.

“Of course,” says Odin. “When Loki is deserving of praise, I shall give it.”

“Magic is deserving of praise,” Frigga says, and there is a hint of something hard in her voice, something commanding and righteous. “You’ve practised the arts of divination, some enchantments. You know full well that magic is a difficult art to master.”

“Yes, I do,” says Odin. The irritation is subtle, but present.

“And having a son who practises sorcery is nothing to be ashamed of.”

There is a subtle confrontation under the surface of the conversation, the same riptide that has run under so many of their discussions about Loki. They both love and cherish him as their son, but there are some things – his true parentage, his lack of physical strength, his preference for knives and tricks – that Frigga doesn’t care about and Odin can’t forget, permanently splitting their view of their younger son and running under the surface of every conversation they have about him.

“I am not ashamed of Loki,” Odin says after a terse pause.

“Then do not act as if you are,” Frigga retorts. “And for goodness’ sake do not let him know that you think him weak and effeminate for practising magic instead of sparring.”

“I know full well that magic is a formidable skill!”

“Then why do you act as if he is a coward, hiding away amongst shimmering distractions?”

“Because that is what he is doing!” Odin rubs his forehead after his outburst. When he looks up at his wife there is a cold fury in her regal face. “Magic is an admirable talent when used in battle,” he says, needing to explain. “Otherwise, it is merely a distraction, useless and frivolous.”

There is a long, terse pause. Frigga’s green eyes bore into her husband; her expression is unreadable.

“You are determined to have only warrior sons,” she says finally, in a soft, even voice.

Odin doesn’t reply.

“If you want Loki to have a magical arsenal, if that is what will make you proud, that is what I will teach him.” Frigga says, finishing the conversation. She turns away from Odin and extinguishes her lamp.

*

The next afternoon Frigga begins to combine the two disciplines she has been teaching Loki, weaponising his magic and weaving sorcery into his fighting techniques. He learns to create duplicates of himself, learns how to distract and confuse an opponent using mirages and turn their swords to snakes while they aren’t looking. His fighting style, already one relying on guile and practicality, becomes ever sneakier, dirty tricks that would never be permitted in the sparring ring.

He has a moment of doubt one afternoon, and as Frigga fans away his thick conjured smoke he asks her –

“This is cheating, isn’t it?”

Frigga looks at him through the last wispy tendrils of smoke.

“What is the reason for sparring and practise fights?”

“So that we can win in real battles,” Loki answers.

“And in real battles, how do you win?”

“By preventing your opponent from being able to.”

“And in war, what rules are there?”

Loki considers the questions carefully.

“Don’t get killed,” he answers finally.

“And the best way to avoid being killed is to do whatever you must to render your opponent incapacitated,” Frigga says. “Honour is well and good, and it has its place in war and society, but it does not win battles.”

After that Loki becomes ever craftier, devising new ways to win however possible. After many months of training Frigga feels certain that her younger son is, in his own way, every bit as capable as his older brother in combat, and she begins to encourage him to return to the official training sessions. Loki is hesitant – after all this time his individual sessions with his mother have become a haven, while the bad memories of his early attempts at becoming a warrior still haunt and embarrass him. Finally, after he hears Odin boasting at a banquet about what a fine young warrior Thor has become, Loki agrees to rejoin the others.

Frigga accompanies her husband to the sparring ring that afternoon, looking resplendent in the weak winter sunshine. She watches on as Thor spars with Lady Sif, who she believes would make a fine queen for her eldest son. Loki is talking to Fandral, but his gaze doesn’t leave Thor, and Frigga can tell that he is sizing his brother up, judging, evaluating, comparing.

Thor beats Sif, but not with ease, and several more pairs have their go before Loki steps forward.

“At last,” Odin murmurs beside her, but Frigga pays him no heed.

Loki challenges Volstagg; a clever choice. Frigga had worried briefly that pride would get the better of him and he’d want to fight Thor, but by picking Volstagg he’s given himself a distinct advantage, as the large axe-wielding warrior will be thrown by Loki’s up-close, speed-based style.

Volstagg scoffs good-naturedly when Loki draws his dagger, and Frigga almost expects her sensitive son to rise to it, but he merely smiles, a cold predatory grin that shows his incisors. They carry out the necessary ritual, touching weapons and making firm eye contact. Frigg knows that the sight of Loki’s 8-inch knife next to Volstagg’s two-handed axe is making everyone, including Odin, make the same call: _not a chance_.

Loki lets Volstagg make the first move but it immediately becomes clear that he is in control. He sticks to the rules of combat, twisting and ducking around Volstagg, in too close for the larger man to properly make use of his weapon or superior strength. As Volstagg finally gets into a position where he can land a winning blow, Frigga is the only one who notices a faint shimmer in the air, and as Volstagg raises his axe above a cornered Loki a knife appears at his throat.

Volstagg is so surprised by the feel of cold steel over his Adam’s apple that he drops his weapon, and as the axe’s blade passes through it the duplicate of Loki dissolves with a golden shimmer.

“Say it,” Loki laughs from behind Volstagg, who is too taken aback to do anything else.

“I yield!” he says, and as soon as Loki removes the blade from his throat he spins around, looking back and forth between the real Loki and the spot where the magical double had been.

“So that’s what you’ve been doing all this time you’ve been elsewhere!” he says, and they both laugh as they grasp wrists.

Thor claps Loki on the back as he steps out of the ring.

“Well done, brother!” he booms. “Mother has made you into quite the fighting sorcerer!” Loki beams.

The others gather around to congratulate Loki, but even as the trainers who gave up on him give him praise he looks over to where Frigga and Odin stand, a silent plea for approval from his father. Odin nods, a rare smile on his face.

“Is his magic useful now?” Frigga asks, raising a delicate eyebrow.

“I should never have doubted you,” he replies.

It’s the closest thing to an apology she’s going to get.

*

That evening Odin summons Loki to his chamber. Frigga sits in the corner, a piece of needlework in her hands, and Loki flashes a smile at her as he enters the room.

“I was very impressed by your sparring today, Loki,” Odin says. Loki grins.

“Thank you, Father. It’s all down to Mother, really.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” Odin says, and a shadow of a grin flickers across his face. He picks a leather pouch up from his desk. “I intended for these to be a birthday gift, but I believe I ought to reward you for the obvious effort and dedication you’ve put into your training. I hope it continues.”

Loki takes the pouch with a quiet ‘thank you’ and unfolds it. Frigga watches his eyes widen as he pulls out one of the shiny new throwing knives.

It feels strange in his hand, the balance so utterly different from his dagger. But he can almost instinctively feel how its weight will spin through the air, how it will feel leaving his hand as he flicks his wrist. Loki can tell they’ve been commissioned specially for him; he’s never seen anyone in Asgard with this kind of weapon before and although they are unadorned with the usual engravings and jewels (to keep them aerodynamic, he supposes) there is a tiny ornate frog carved into the hilt of each knife.

“Thank you so much,” he says, looking up. “I’ll treasure them.”

“I’d rather you buried them into the heads of the training dummies,” Odin replies. He lays a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “I am proud of what you’ve achieved, son.”

Loki bows his head respectfully before kissing his mother on the cheek and leaving the room. He rushes off to show Thor his new most precious possessions. They may not have received the same presentation ceremony that Mjölnir did, but in that moment he feels that he could not have asked for anything better.

Frigga moves to stand next to Odin.

“He needed that,” she says softly.

He nods stiffly, his well of sentiment thoroughly dried up for the day.

*

Frigga teaches Loki how to properly grip his new knives, how to flick his wrist so that they spin through the air, end over end, and embed themselves inches-deep into the trunks of trees. He doesn’t take much teaching. The throwing knives are even more natural to him than his dagger, and he seems to have an instinctive grasp of where to aim so that the points stick exactly where he wants them.

One afternoon, after watching him plant all ten knives solidly into the torso of a dummy and being surrounded by his clones during a spar, Frigga realises that Loki doesn’t need their special training sessions anymore. He has much more to learn, but she has nothing left to teach him. The experiences he now needs to further his skills can only be gained in true battle.

The opportunity comes soon enough. The Marauders’ raids on Vanaheim worsen, and Odin organises an expedition to restore order. Thor is selected, as are Sif, the Warriors Three and, to his mild surprise and great pleasure, Loki. He suspects it is his mother’s doing, a suspicion strengthened by the way Odin treats him during the fortnight of skirmishes on the plains of Vanaheim. His father, despite being obviously impressed by Loki’s magic and tricks, still doesn’t trust its effectiveness in battle. Nevertheless, a well-placed double and well-timed throwing knife prevents Hogun from being taken prisoner and Loki becomes one of the short campaign’s heroes. Thor (or rather Mjölnir, Loki thinks bitterly) is the main hero of the hour, and although Loki is truly pleased for his brother he can’t help but feel the familiar jolts of jealousy shooting through his cold veins.

_If I save one person, he has to save ten_ , Loki thinks, and he knows it’s not personal, he knows Thor isn’t being great to spite him, yet he still feels somehow wronged. It’s a selfish, bitter, prideful feeling, and it disgusts him, so he buries it deep where he hopes no-one, not even him, will find it.

When they return from Vanaheim Frigga cannot lavish enough praise on her sons. However, unlike the rest of Asgard – including Odin – she treats them both as equals, pretending that Loki’s achievements are as impressive or important as Thor’s. When, in private, Frigga tells Loki that she has nothing left to teach him and that he ought to spend his afternoons sparring in the training grounds with the others, the vague, half-formed feelings of rejection are buried beneath the bubble of pride which swells in him; the knowledge that he has fulfilled and surpassed his mother’s expectations drowning out any thoughts that she was washing her hands of him.

Loki goes to the afternoon training sessions for a time, but his methods are so divergent, his fighting style so far removed from the others’, that it quickly becomes clear that there is no reason for him to be there. Instead he begins to retreat to an orchard tucked away in the palace grounds, singling put an old gnarled tree as a target, flinging his knives down rows of trees lit with dappled sunlight. He continues experimenting with magic, always reading the old tomes given to him by his mother and freely adapting spells to his own needs, creating a sorcerer’s armoury unlike any other in the Nine Realms. Wielding Mjölnir makes Thor unique and special, and Loki feels he has given himself the same distinction through his own hard work and cleverness.

When Frigga visits him in the secluded orchard one golden afternoon he impresses her by demonstrating how he charges his throwing knives with magical energy, causing the small holes they leave in the tree to be surrounded by ash.

“Even a hit to a limb would most likely be fatal now,” he says proudly as his mother examines the pockmarked tree. “The next thing I’m going to do is work out how to summon them back to me after I’ve thrown them.”

“The way Thor calls Mjölnir,” Frigga replies. A faint crease appears between Loki’s dark eyebrows.

“Well, yes, that is where I got the idea,” he says. “But it’s necessary; I only have ten knives and I can’t be crawling around a battlefield looking for them.”

“Very true,” Frigga says. “Well, I think your father’s planning an excursion to Alfheim soon, I’m sure you’ll be able to greatly impress him.”

There _is_ an excursion, and everyone _is_ impressed by Loki’s magic blades. But even after years of hard work and tricky experimentation, a handful of glowing knives cannot compete with enormous bolts of lightning summoned from the heavens, and Loki’s jealousy grows like a poisonous mineral in a dark mine deep within his soul.

*

“Thor is very nearly ready to take the throne,” Odin tells Frigga one evening. There’s no question that Thor is the greatest warrior in Asgard. He’s lead countless expeditions and war parties, his bravery and strength inspiring men to victory. Loki’s been in almost all the same battles, but always in the shadows, killing enemies without ever needing to step out into the open or put himself in danger. No-one would call him brave, and his reputation as a warrior suffers for it.

“He’s not ready for it yet,” Frigga replies. “And I don’t think you’re ready to give it to him.”

“I’m tired, Frigga,” Odin says, settling a soft leather patch over his empty eye-socket. “I’m ready for Thor to take up his responsibilities.”

“He isn’t ready for them,” repeats Frigga. “He still possesses the rashness of youth; his bravery isn’t yet tempered by caution. I know he is a fine warrior, but he is not yet a king.”

“I’m going to teach him what he needs to know. He can learn the intricacies of diplomacy and rule, and then he will be ready.”

Frigga looks at her husband with penetrating green eyes.

“You know as well as I do that the art of diplomacy is suited far better to Loki than Thor,” she says softly. There is no challenge in her voice.

“We’ve discussed this,” Odin replies. “They cannot rule together. Loki has his own role to play, in time.”

“He burns with jealousy of his brother.”

“He will be a king,” says Odin simply.

Frigga won’t be deterred. She is the only one who can see how deeply Loki is affected by his place in the family. They hid the truth from him to protect him, but he has been hurt in other ways. He may not know that he is different, but he feels it, and Frigga fears that with every passing day resentment is taking seed.

“He won’t be a king until he knows the truth, and in the meantime he is made to feel second-best,” she says.

“Laufey is fit and well,” says Odin. “It will be many years before he will be needing his heir, and it is senseless to hurt Loki with the truth before it is necessary.”

Frigga is silent. Odin can only see the obvious pain that Loki’s true heritage will cause him when he finds out. He has no concept of the misconceptions and self-doubt that gnaws at their youngest son, no idea of the potential for understanding that the truth holds.

“If you are to teach Thor how to rule, the least you can do is include Loki in the lessons,” Frigga says eventually.

“He will learn what he needs to when the time is right,” says Odin.

Frigga knows that her husband is wrong, that a path is being laid for Loki which is damaging and avoidable. But he is the Allfather, and when he makes a decision, everyone – even the Queen of Asgard, even his wife – must obey it.

*

Thor and Loki are playing at dice early one evening when a messenger knocks on the door.

“Are you sure these are real dice? These can’t be real dice – yes, come in – you’re using magic to cheat, aren’t you?”

“No no, not magic. Just pure skill.” Loki laughs as he pulls Thor’s copper coins towards him and prepares to roll again. The messenger coughs pointedly.

“Yes, what is it?” Both brothers turn to look at him, Loki shaking the dice absent-mindedly in his palm.

“The Allfather requests an audience with you,” the messenger says, looking at Thor.

“What, now? Alright, we’ll be there in a moment. I was losing miserably anyway.” Thor rises from the table and Loki follows him. The messenger falters.

“Oh – no, ah, just – just Thor,” he says, glancing nervously at the younger prince.

Thor and Loki exchange glances. Thor is vaguely apologetic; Loki’s face is unreadable.

“Off you go then,” he says evenly.

“Probably just planning for that trip to Vanaheim,” Thor says, shrugging. “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

“Mhmm,” is all Loki will say. He stares moodily down at the dice in his hand as Thor follows the messenger out of the room.

Frigga finds him in the library twenty minutes later.

“You know your father summoned Thor to speak with him?” she asks, though she knows the answer. He nods without looking up.

“Thor will be taking the throne soon,” Frigga continues. “Your father has some lessons he feels Thor must learn before that happens.”

“So you finally concede that Thor’s the only heir apparent?” Loki says, and there is a cold bitterness in his voice. Frigga sits down beside him on the window bench.

“Loki, my darling, you’ve known for a long time that Thor is going to be king. He’s older than you –”

“Father told us we were both born to be kings,” Loki interrupts, almost childishly.

The truth is throwing itself against Frigga’s clenched teeth, desperate to be in the open. _He could have been spared so much pain_ , she thinks, _if only I’d had the courage to be honest from the start_.

“Loki, nothing, especially which of you becomes king, is going to make any difference to the fact that your father and I love both you and Thor equally and enormously,” she says instead. She feels like she has to make him understand, make him know that he is not and never has been second-best.

Loki doesn’t say anything.

Just as Frigga is preparing to leave, he speaks.

“Thor will make an awful king.”

“Loki! You mustn’t say such cruel things.”

“It’s true,” Loki says, with no hint of emotion in his voice. His tone is light, factual, as if he were commenting on a dead bird found in a field. “He is rash and impulsive. With Thor on the throne the Nine Realms will plunge into war. Thor will use it as his own massive war game to play in.”

“Thor will mature,” Frigga says evenly, well aware that she and her husband has this exact conversation only yesterday. “Your father will not put him on the throne until he is ready. And when the time comes, he will be a fine ruler.”

“Thor the Warmonger, Thor the Dim,” Loki mutters mercilessly. “That’s what they’ll say.”

“Resentment and jealousy are unbecoming traits, Loki,” Frigga says firmly. Loki doesn’t reply, and after a pause she continues. “When Thor becomes king he will be relying on you for judgement and counsel. The two of you are at your best when you work together. I’m counting on you to rise above any petty childhood emotions you may still harbour for the good of Asgard.” Frigga understands how Loki feels, but she will not coddle him. She won’t allow him to sink into self-pity or be consumed by jealousy. Despite everything, she will raise a well-adjusted son. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” he replies. She puts an arm around him, feeling the coolness of his skin.

“I love you, little frog,” she says softly, and he relaxes slightly at the childhood name. “No matter what happens, I love you. Always remember that.”

“I will,” he murmurs, and it sounds as if he means it.

*

Loki has never spent a large amount of time with his father, but as Thor and Odin spend more and more time together in the throne room Loki begins to crave his father’s company. A part of him realises this is merely because of all the time his brother is spending with Odin, a childish want of what another has, but he doesn’t care. He and Thor spend less and less time messing about together, and he begins desperately to wish that he would be properly included in their little father and son bonding sessions.

One evening he attempts to go into the throne room to demonstrate a new trick to his father and brother, one that Frigga was extremely impressed by. Normally by this time of night Thor’s official diplomacy lessons are winding down into general conversation, and Loki has always been granted permission to enter in the past. This time, however, the guards on the door bar his way.

“The Allfather and the Prince do not wish to be disturbed,” one says.

“I am also the Prince,” Loki says coolly, not letting his anger and frustration bubble to the surface.

“Nevertheless,” the other guard says. “We have our orders.”

“Very well,” Loki says, and as he turns to leave he flicks his wrist at the door. _If they don’t want to see my new trick, I’ll show them a different one_ , he thinks, and a smile grows wide on his face as the surprised shouts of Thor and Odin penetrate the gilded doors.

The doors fly open and Odin’s eye latches on Loki.

“Just as I thought,” he spits furiously. He grabs Loki by the scruff of the neck and pulls him into the throne room. “Put it right!”

Loki eyes the enormous snake that is curled where the throne and its dais normally stand before glancing at Thor, pressed against the wall with Mjölnir in his hand.

“You know, I’ve really mastered snakes,” he says lightly. Odin snarls.

“Alright, don’t fret.” Another twist of his wrist and the snake disappears in a shimmer of gold, leaving the throne room devoid of reptiles.

From then on, Loki’s childhood mischief, always harmless and minor, develops into something more. The effects of his pranks become widespread and sometimes there seems to be true malice behind them. For a week all the food in Asgard in cursed to turn to ash in the Aesirs’ mouths; on another occasion Loki creates the illusion of hundreds of foreign ships bearing down on Asgard, causing the city’s defences to be put up and Heimdall to be publicly embarrassed. Loki is given a position in an ambassador party to Nidavellir in the hope that his gift of swaying others with words will help to bargain am important trade deal. When the dwarves discover how he has been attempting to manipulate both parties out of gold to his sole benefit, all the while making himself appear the most important member of the party, they abduct him and sew his mouth shut in order to silence his silver tongue. Loki Lie-smith they call him, and his fellow ambassadors agree, letting him return to Asgard with his mouth still sewn shut.

Frigga finds him in his room, attempting to sever the fine but strong threads using his dagger. She takes over, using a dainty pair of her nail scissors. As she pulls bloody threads from her son’s lips, she attempts to coax Loki into acknowledging the wrong he has committed. When she finally pulls the last thread out, scarlet blood streaming down Loki’s chin and staining his tunic, he refuses to acknowledge either her help or his own pain, instead sitting with his green eyes staring defiantly forward. She leaves without her youngest son expressing any gratitude to her for her patience and comfort at a time when the rest of Asgard are taking up the nickname ‘Lie-smith’, and she prays it is Loki’s shame, not cruelty, which is preventing him from responding to her.

*

The morning of Thor’s coronation dawns bright and clear. The preparations have been going on for months; the atmosphere throughout Asgard is one of anticipation and celebration.

Frigga still has her doubts about how ready Thor is to take the throne. She thinks he still needs more time to mature, to grow out of his youthful arrogance and recklessness. But Thor is of age, and Odin has been putting off the Odinsleep for decades now. The time is right for Thor’s coronation, and Frigga must believe that Thor will rise to the occasion. Besides, she thinks, he will have his brother. Loki is a born diplomat, natural wily and rational, the perfect offset to Thor’s impulsiveness.

If she is honest, Frigga is more worried about Loki than Thor. Thor is straightforward and his heart is good; he will find his path. Loki, however… Frigga feels that Loki is slipping away, that his increasingly alarming ‘pranks’ are symptoms that he is letting his jealousy and burning need for attention and approval take over his soul and control him. Frigga feels there is no longer any question about it – Loki has to know the truth. The lie is poisoning Frigga’s family and the time has come for her to right the wrong committed all those years ago, when she yielded to Odin’s decision to hide the truth from Loki. There should be no secrets in a family. They lied so that he would never feel different but Frigga can see that he does, regardless of the ignorance she let him grow up in. _When he knows the truth, he’ll understand_ , she thinks. _He’ll know why he feels different, he’ll know that he will one day be a king, and he’ll finally be able to find his path._

Frigga watches as Thor makes his way down the aisle past the adoring crowd, smiling despite herself. He still has much to learn, but the people love him, and she knows in her heart that he will be a good king.

She looks over at Loki, looking every bit the resplendent Aesir prince in his magnificent helmet. He is happy for his brother, but Frigga can see another expression in his eyes. In that instant, she realises that she is the only person in the room to notice how Loki feels, to see the hurt pride and jealousy simmering. In that moment, she is the only one who sees Loki at all.

She makes her decision. She will tell Loki the truth, all of it. That evening, after the coronation, when Loki slips away from the massive feast to nurture toxic thoughts in solitude, Frigga will tell him the truth. And she prays that by doing so she will not be driving her son away for good.


End file.
